Chapter 8
In the end, Isabella had not seen Elliot in the drawing room that evening. Kitty sombrely brought her the news that His Grace was a little unwell and had thought to cancel their meeting that evening lest he part with some germ or other that would bring her low.
“Oh dear,” Isabella said, not believing the explanation for a moment. “I do hope he is soon recovered.”
“I’m sure he shall be.” And for all world, Kitty looked a little uncomfortable.
At that moment, Isabella was certain that the Duke was not ill and, what was more, she suspected that Kitty knew it very well. She fought hard against a desire to ask, to see if she could shed some light on the thing.
Of course, the idea that the Duke might well be suffering some sort of melancholy could not be avoided entirely. She drew to mind the look on his face and the blackened walls of the old tower. More than anything, she wanted to ask Kitty about the tower. And yet things were still so new, she had been there but a week, and she knew she could not be so bold as to request such information.
Also, Isabella could not escape the feeling that she had, in some way, added to his misery. Perhaps he regretted allowing her the free run of the place. He might even have assumed that she would not go so far as to enter the tower, or maybe he had not even thought of it. If only she were not so in the dark about it all; if only she had at least enough information to avoid causing any sort of offence or upset in the future.
After all, she still had not settled entirely, despite her determinedly cheerful tone in her letter to Esme, and she did not want to add to that feeling by blundering into making a mistake.
“Is the Duke not to take any dinner at all?” she said, wondering if he might truly be unwell.
“I think it likely that he will take a little something in his room later, Your Grace.”
“Then I am to amuse myself,” Isabella said with a smile. “Perhaps I will take my own meal in the dining room tonight instead of sitting here in this room. Do you think that that would be possible, Kitty?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Kitty brightened. “I would be very pleased to think that you were growing accustomed to the place. I shall speak to the cook and the housekeeper and see that your place is set at the table.”
“Would it be too much to ask to have it set in the breakfast room instead?” Isabella said suddenly. “I ask only because the dining room is so very large, and I should feel rather lonely in it.”
“I’m sure that it would be perfectly alright.” Kitty made her farewells so that she might put Isabella’s plans for dinner into motion.
When the light began to fade and early evening was upon them, Isabella made her way down to the breakfast room. As promised, it was set nicely for her, a place just for one.
Already, a young footman was waiting patiently in the room, ready to pull the bell at the side of the fireplace to let the servants below know that their mistress was ready to eat.
“Thank you kindly,” Isabella said to the young man she was not sure she had seen before.
“You’re welcome, Your Grace,” he said politely.
“Tell me, what is your name?” she said, feeling suddenly lonely.
Even though the breakfast room was welcoming and a place she had sat for the last three mornings to take her early morning meal, it seemed somehow vast by candle and lamplight. She felt isolated; alone.
“Thomas, Your Grace,” he said and bowed.
“And have you worked here at the hall for a long time, Thomas?”
“I have worked here for two years, Your Grace.” He was a young man of about her age with pale hair and eyes.
“And how do you find it?”
“I am very pleased to be here, Your Grace.”
“I am pleased to hear that.”
Isabella was faltering, not knowing what else to say to him. She could tell that the young man did not want to be engaged in conversation, and that he felt dreadfully self-conscious to be spoken to in such friendly tones by his new mistress. Perhaps he would have preferred the customary distance that ordinarily existed between family and servants.
In the end, Isabella fell silent and studied the table top and its solitary place setting. The sense of isolation was greater than any she had felt since she had arrived at Coldwell Hall, and she fully determined to take her dinner in her own rooms from that point onward. She did not want to be reminded of her solitary life.
And yet, only days before, she had been relieved to discover that her new husband would require no more than two hours of her company every day. She had felt grateful not to have to be in his presence any longer than that.
But as her meal was served to her, and she ate in silence, Isabella would have been pleased by the prospect of spending two hours with Elliot. She would have gratefully sat in the gloom of the drawing room and looked at the indistinct features of his perfect profile. She would have welcomed his quiet questions and sudden changes in conversational direction. Anything to relieve the isolation of that moment.
Isabella ate quickly, wanting the meal to be done with as soon as possible so that she might retreat once more to her own chamber. Curiously, the silence in her room seemed perfectly normal, almost soothing. Perhaps silence at dinner was rather more deafening in its own way.
With her meal eaten and a vague, dull pain in her stomach that she attributed to the speed of her consumption of it, she thanked the footman and asked that he pass her compliments to the cook for a wonderful meal.
The footman bowed deeply before she turned to make her way out of the breakfast room with the hopes that it would feel very different when she returned to it in the morning.
As Isabella reached the bottom of the wide staircase, she stared over at the wooden horse and its metal companion. A knight in shining armour was how Elliot had described it. As if the suit of armour contained the man of his father’s stories.
With a sigh, she embarked upon the stairs, pausing sharply when she heard the strains of a violin somewhere in the distance.
She stopped stock still with one foot on the bottom step and strained to hear. Sure enough, she could hear a violin being played somewhere on the ground floor and wondered who the musician might be.
Isabella wondered if it might be one of the servants, somebody with a musical inclination. Or perhaps it was Crawford Maguire.
She turned and made her way through the great entrance hall, passing the wooden horse and his valiant rider as she determined to find the source of the playing.
Isabella had not happened across Crawford Maguire since their meeting on her first morning at Coldwell, and she thought she might like to spend a few moments in his company to stave off the curious sense of loneliness.
Isabella followed the music, turning this way and that down corridors until it grew louder; nearer. Finally, she arrived at a partially open door to a room that she already knew was the library. She had spent a good deal of time in there on her exploration and had selected several books from the shelves to adorn her chamber.
She stood for a moment outside the door listening properly to the violin music. It was a tune that she had not heard before, a haunting melody that stirred her. She felt emotional, sad, and there was a little thickening at her throat which made it hard to swallow.
Isabella knew, of course, that she would have to compose herself before she entered the library. In truth, she did not know if she ought to enter it at all. Perhaps she would do better to find out who was in there before she made so bold a move.
As the melody continued, Isabella crept closer to the door, attempting to peek in through the gap. There was a fire lit in the grate, and its flames danced in the near darkness. There was not a lamplight anywhere, not even the weak light of a candle’s flame. She squinted and tried to see into the darkness trying to discern whatever she could by the flame of the fire.
When she saw that it was the Duke who sat alone in the library playing the violin, she found herself suddenly rooted to the spot. She did not want to intrude upon his privacy, especially when he had made it very clear that he had not wanted the two of them to meet that evening.
However, Isabella could not take her eyes from him. As he played, she felt certain that his eyes were closed, not paying any attention at all to the violin he played so very well.
And, as he sat unguarded, she could make out both sides of his face. And it was true to say that the diminished lighting did much to improve the appearance of the disfigurement.
Isabella could not have described what she felt as she watched him. A part of her dwelled upon the fact that he had claimed himself unwell, and she knew now that he had only said so in order that he would not spend any time with her that evening.
Quite why she felt a little upset by that, she could not say.
After all, she had known him but a matter of days, and it was quite natural for a person, she knew from experience, to want a little time to themselves here and there along the way. But did he not already have enough time to himself? Did the Duke not already spend much of his day in solitude?
Isabella thought that that was, perhaps, their largest area of common ground. They both lived in that beautiful, sprawling estate, an enchanted place with secrets and trees and knights in shining armour. And they both lived alone, to all intents and purposes. They wandered by day in their own private worlds, gently tiptoeing from place to place so that they might avoid one another.
In order that they might make themselves and each other very lonely people indeed.
Isabella knew that she must go, that she must move and not spy on him a moment longer. Something had affected him greatly that day, whether it was related to her or not, and he had a right to manage his feelings in his own way.
And yet still she could not go; she could not leave before the end. The piece he was playing was so beautiful, so emotional and heartfelt, that she had to hear it to the end.
Still standing so close to the partially open door, Isabella did just as her husband and closed her eyes. The moment she did so, she felt herself transported to the woods and the tower and the feeling of great sadness. And despite the feeling of sadness, she could not deny it. She could not turn away or block her ears; she did not want to. It was almost as if it was a feeling which must be felt, something that would not be denied.
As the strains of the violin began to die away, growing ever quieter, she knew that Elliot must be coming to the end of the piece. Her time to stand there as an unseen watcher, an interloper upon the privacy of another, was coming to an end, and she knew she must leave.
As she opened her eyes and looked at him to watch him play those last few notes, Isabella was taken aback to find that the Duke’s eyes were already open and that he looked at her intently.
Seeing that she had finally opened her own eyes did not make him stop playing, nor did it make him take his eyes off her. He simply continued on to the end, finishing his piece as he had clearly intended to.
Isabella wanted to turn and run; she felt so ashamed of her behaviour. But she knew that she could not. She must make her apology and make it most genuinely.
“I am sorry,” she said the moment he had finished playing and lowered the violin onto his lap. “I should not have …”
“You need not stand in the doorway, Isabella,” he said, his deep voice quiet and yet resonant.
Isabella continued to stand where she was, unsure if he was dismissing her from his sight or inviting her into the room. She looked at him helplessly.
“Isabella, come in.”